


Blackbird

by rachelrose



Series: Sherlock Reader One-Shots [3]
Category: British Actor RPF, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock (TV) RPF
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Music, Musical Instruments, RPF, open mic night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-09-03 17:45:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8723329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachelrose/pseuds/rachelrose
Summary: Whilst visiting your best friend Jess in London, you — an amateur musician & singer from America — find yourself ready to perform at an Open Mic Night at a local pub. Little do you know, however, that playing at this dank little back-alley hole-in-the-wall will be the catalyst to the greatest, most fantastical series of events that no Cumberbitch could ever even dream possible.





	1. Open Mic Night

**Author's Note:**

> This is a really, _really_ old fic that I wrote back before BC was in a relationship – so forgive the implausible romantic fantasy here. I've just rediscovered a few of my older unfinished works, so I'm polishing them off and posting them for public consumption. This is written in American English (with variations in dialogue where appropriate) in the spirit of authenticity in the narrator's voice. 
> 
> The Polyvore set for this story can be found [here.](http://www.polyvore.com/open_mic/set?id=106281951)  
> (and if you check out the date the set was published, you'll see what I mean about this being old)

“Will you just _fucking_ -” Your best friend, Jess, lays in the middle of your bed, bitching and moaning at you as you're getting ready in the bathroom down the hall. The whining abruptly stops when you enter the room – or the doorway, rather – and lean one shoulder against the door frame. Your friend props her head up to do a once-over of your outfit before dramatically falling back onto to bed and sighing, “oh, for _fuck's sake_.”

“Not good?”

“Oh no, it's stunning – if you're trying to impress half of London Fashion Week.”

As you lean against the door frame, you suddenly find yourself reevaluating your prior decision on the outfit. You're wearing a grungy gray cropped tee-shirt and a high-waisted black sheer chiffon maxi skirt (you're not usually one for wearing skirts in general, but this particular skirt has a pair of visible high-waisted boyshorts attached underneath the sheer fabric, making the skirt elegant but not overly feminine), with your favorite pair of worn black Doc Martens. Your hair contrasts pretty heavily with your makeup: while your dark hair falls off of your shoulders, untouched and natural, you've gone all-out with your makeup: using some dark, sparkly, smokey eye shadow, some liquid eyeliner, and your best mascara. You've topped off the outfit with a pair of black and gold stud earrings and your favorite oversized denim jacket.

You huff and fold your arms. “The _one time_ I try to get dressed up -”

“I'm just saying – maybe you should save it for when you can show it off to a more appreciative audience, yeah? Don't you think it'd be a bit frivolous to waste it on the crowd at the pub? After all, it's only Open Mic Night. You're not playing an arena.”

“You realize that this would mean me having to start over with picking out my outfit again, right?”

She bolts up from the bed and grabs you by the wrist, dragging you down the hall to the foyer. “Nah. On second thought, you look marvelous.”

“This coming from the girl in yoga pants.” Jess glares at you, grabbing her bag and walking out the door without waiting for you. You grab your guitar case and your bag and follow her outside.

 

* * *

 

Jess describes her favorite back-road pub as “London's finest hidden treasure.” It's a little dive on a poorly-lit, low-traffic street. You pull up outside of a row of buildings in a lower-middle-class neighborhood and look around for the entrance to the pub as you retrieve your guitar from the back of the cab. Your friend grabs you by your free hand and nearly skips down the street, dragging you in her tracks. She turns down an alleyway between two buildings and releases your hand in favor of trotting down a set of concrete steps. She gestures at a weather-worn wooden door, adorned with an illegible sign, and waits for you to follow her down the steps. At the landing, she turns to you and says, “I have to make a call, so why don't you go inside, put your name on the list, and grab us two seats at the bar? You know my order. I'll be in in a few.” She takes the steps two at a time and is out of your line of vision in seconds. As anxious as you are about going in without her, you find yourself turning the doorknob and entering the pub alone.

It's incredibly crowded for its location, you note. It's also much larger than you'd expected – it looks like a church basement-turned-banquet hall. There's a bar that runs along the left wall, and about two dozen bar tables with stools. The stage takes up the whole corner of the far-right-hand side of the room. There's a gorgeous, polished, well-kept black grand piano, plus a few stools, mics, and music stands. You spot the sign-up sheet, sitting on a table right in front of the stage, and scuttle over to jot down your name in the next available time slot. You have about an hour until you go up, so you drop your guitar off next to the stage and grab two stools at the bar, as your friend suggested. From this position, you're able to people-watch. You scope out the room, and in doing so, your gaze falls upon a face that makes your throat drop into your gut.

Sitting all alone at a table along the opposite wall is your favorite actor: Benedict Cumberbatch, in all of his fucking magnificent glory.

_No way. No. Fucking. Way._

You _have_ to meet him. You _have_ to say hello.

You ditch your seat and cross the floor to approach him. You wait until you're relatively close before asking, “Excuse me, are you, uh – are you Benedict Cumberbatch?”

_Good lord, he looks ravishing tonight_ : brown leather jacket over a white henley, dark wash jeans, gray suede Clarks, hair slicked back – he really is a sight to behold. He looks up from his phone to meet your eyes. “I am.” He smiles, though it seems more like a grimace to you.

_Oh, shit. Don't bother the man!_ “Well I don't mean to disturb you, but I just thought I ought to let you know that I'm a huge fan of _all_ of your work, and I really think you're a spectacular actor. You're my favorite, actually. That's all. Have a lovely evening.” You smile genuinely at him and turn to walk away, so as to not disturb him any further. That is, until you hear him replying to you.

“Thank you, that really means a lot to me.” He smiles again – less enthusiastically this time, but it looks much less painful. After a second of hesitation, he frowns and adds, “Have we met?”

“Once actually – well, sort of – backstage, briefly, after your most recent Graham Norton interview. By the time I got up to where you were greeting fans, you looked pretty exhausted from signing so many autographs, so I – well, I didn't want to hound you. I was perfectly content with just getting a smile and a wave.” You smile softly as you blush a complimentary shade of red.

“I'm sorry I didn't-”

You interrupt him. “No, really, it's okay. I get it.” There isn't a hint of malice in your voice. You see your friend walk in and cross over to the bar, eyeing you suspiciously. “I have to go, and I'm sure you're busy too, but I can't emphasize enough how much of an honor it has been to meet you.”

Before you have a chance to walk away, he grabs you by your forearm, and you swear you melt under his touch. He asks, “What's your name?” You stutter out an answer. “Well it was a pleasure to meet you, and, uh – thank you for being so considerate. It’s quite refreshing. Maybe we can get a selfie later.” Your heart warms when he smiles at you before releasing your hand.

You nod and reply, “I’d like that.”

As you return to the bar to take the seat next to Jess, she cocks an eyebrow at you. “Look at you, chatting up some bloke in a pub – it’s like I don’t even know you anymore!” You take a breath to interject, but she continues, “Hang on, where do I know him from?” She nods her head in the actor's direction.

“You've _got_ to be joking.” She shifts her gaze back and forth between him and you (not nearly as discreetly as you’d like her to), drawing a blank. “It’ll come to you.” You pause and she just looks at you dumbly. “Oh, for fuck's sake... He's an actor. How many times have I made you watch him with me?” She shrugs and takes a swig of her cocktail. “Christ... It's fucking – it's Benedict Cumberbatch.”

Her eyes grow wide and she nearly chokes on her drink. “ _Bloody hell..._ ” You can't help but grin. “What’d you say to him? No, wait – what'd _he_ say to _you_?”

“Oh, I just went up to tell him that I'm a huge fan and that he's my favorite actor. He asked if we've met before, and I said once, briefly. Remember, at the Graham Norton show you flew me out here to see for my birthday? That's about it.” You pause for a moment before remembering his final gesture. “Oh! And he grabbed my arm to stop me from walking away to ask my name. I think I died a little.”

“Oh my _god!_ ” She slaps you on the thigh.

“Yeah, next step is the wedding, of course.” You two share a good laugh before she orders another round to occupy you while you wait to be called up on stage.

 

* * *

 

Forty-five minutes have passed – fifteen until your set. There's a lull in the music as another person sets up their equipment on stage.

You feel a large hand grace your shoulder and turn around to find The Man Himself standing behind you, smiling. “May I?” He gestures to the vacant stool next to you.

“Uh-um-of course.” _HOLY. SHIT. OHMY -_

“This is going to sound very abrupt and a bit odd, but bear with me. My mates over there,” he gestures to the three men now seated at his table, “have a bet going, saying that I wouldn't be able to get a random stranger to sing a duet with me. I saw your name on the sign-up sheet and figured I'd ask. Feel free to say no, of course.”

Your heart is pounding, and you're sure you look hysterical right about now. _I'm pretty sure I've dreamt about this exact situation before._ “Uh, yeah, um – I mean, I guess.” You take a breath to compose yourself. “I – I could probably help you out.” You pull a binder out from under your seat and hand it to him. “Here are all of the tabs and sheet music that I'm familiar with. This is pretty much my whole repertoire. If there's anything in there that you'd want to sing, I'd be happy to throw together a duet arrangement.”

He thumbs through the pages for a moment, before he notices your glass is empty. He calls out to the bartender to get you another one of whatever you're having – on him, of course. You have butterflies. So many butterflies. They're strangling you, at this point – blocking all oxygen from reaching your lungs.

After going through the whole binder, he settles on a song and hands it back over to you, grinning. _Oh, yes, wonderful choice._ You pull the page out of the sheet protector and fetch a pen from your clutch, thinking for a moment and tapping a pen against your teeth. You can feel his intense gaze on you, and it makes you extremely uncomfortable. You scribble brackets around some of the lyrics and underline a few more, and without looking up, you ask, “I can tell that you have a deeper vocal range, so do you want me to lower the key at all? Or can you sing it in the original?”

“Yeah, let’s just do it in the original key. Anything else would probably throw me off.”

You mark down a few final scribbles and hand the paper over to him, saying, “The stuff I bracketed is what you'll be singing. The stuff that's underlined we'll sing together. I’ll cover the harmonies – you just sing the melody. Does that work?” He nods. “I'm up in ten. I'm going to do my set, and then I'll call you up.”

“Yes! Brilliant. Thank you _so_ much. And I think I'll surprise them by not telling them that I'll be performing. That should make for a good laugh.” He folds the paper and stuffs it into his pocket before getting up to return to his seat. “Thank you again!” You hear him say something along the lines of “no dice” to the men at his table, and they all comically sigh in unison.

 

* * *

 

You transform into someone entirely different when you're on stage. You completely lose all of your awkward inhibitions the second you step up to take a seat at the piano. On stage, you've set up your acoustic guitar off to the side, with a mic and a stool. The tech has an extra mic and stool set up offstage for when you do your duet.

You adjust the mic next to the piano and direct your attention to the crowd. In your most confident inflection, you say, “So I have a few songs to play for you guys tonight. I really hope you all enjoy.” You make the mistake of making eye contact with your celebrity crush, and you suddenly feel very very nervous. “This first one's got a really pretty sound – it's called 'Gravity,' by Sara Bareilles.”

The anxiety quickly dissipates as you start playing and singing. This is one of your favorite songs to perform – it's perfect for your vocal register. You catch your friend shooting you a thumbs-up and grinning like a madwoman when you hit the chorus.

 

* * *

 

_Set me free, leave me be._ __  
_I don't want to fall another moment into your gravity._ __  
_Here I am and I stand so tall, just the way I'm supposed to be._  
But you're on to me and all over me.

 

* * *

 

You refuse to look in his direction. _No, don't you dare. Don't even fucking think about him. Focus on your damn performance._

You grow more confident when you reach the bridge.

 

* * *

 

_I live here on my knees as I try to make you see_  
_that you're everything I think I need here on the ground._  
_But you're neither friend nor foe though I can't seem to let you go._  
_The one thing that I still know is that you're keeping me down._

 

* * *

 

As you hit the high note, you hear a few fervent whistles and claps from the cloud. The whistles come from the men at Benedict's table. You smile – something you hardly ever do when you're singing.

 

* * *

 

_You're keeping me down, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah_ _  
_ _You're on to me, on to me, and all over..._

_Something always brings me back to you._ _  
_ _It never takes too long._

 

* * *

 

You don't expect the amount of applause you get from the crowd, and that makes you feel incredibly warm and fuzzy inside. “Wow, you guys are an amazing audience,” you say, as you take a sip from your water bottle. Another whistle causes you to quirk an eyebrow. “This next one is one of my favorite songs to perform. It's my own rendition of Lady Gaga’s ‘Paparazzi.’ Bear with me – it's a good one, I swear.”

The song is very powerful, and it's pretty heavy on the sustain pedal. It’s a challenging one for you both to play and to sing.

 

* * *

 

_We are the crowd_  
_We're c-coming out_  
_Got my flash on it's true_  
_Need that picture of you_  
_It's so magical_  
_We'd be so fantastical_

_Leather and jeans_  
_We're rock glamorous_  
_Not sure what it means_  
_But this photo of us_  
_It don't have a price_  
_Ready for those flashing lights_  
_‘Cause you know that baby I_

 

* * *

 

Having picked out your set long before you knew whom was in the audience, you realize now that your song choice was eerily prescient.

 

* * *

 

_I'm your biggest fan_  
_I'll follow you until you love me_  
_Papa-paparazzi_  
_Baby there's no other superstar_  
_You know that I'll be_  
_Your papa-paparazzi_  
_Promise I'll be kind_  
_But I won't stop until that boy is mine_  
_Baby you'll be famous_  
_Chase you down until you love me_  
_Papa-paparazzi_

 

* * *

 

Throughout the rest of the song, with as challenging as it is, you feel your voice begin to grow hoarse. _Maybe it’ll be in, like, the sexy way. You know, not in the 60-year-old lifetime smoker kind of way._

_One can only pray._

But your voice doesn’t crack at all; no, in fact, you make it to the last chorus – the hardest part – and it goes off without a hitch.

 

* * *

 

_I'm your biggest fan_  
_I'll follow you until you love me_  
_Papa-paparazzi_  
_Baby there's no other superstar_  
_You know that I'll be_  
_Your papa-paparazzi_  
_Promise I'll be kind_  
_But I won't stop until that boy is mine_  
_Baby you'll be famous_  
_Chase you down until you love me_  
_Papa-paparazzi_

 

* * *

The room is silent for just a second, and you fear the worst. _It's always a mixed reaction with this song._ But the room erupts in applause, and you notice Jess giving you a standing ovation. _Oh, shit –_ a few people are.

You stand up to grab your acoustic guitar as the tech sets up the mic and stool for you. You take a seat and adjust the mic, saying, “This one is another one of my favorites. I always get strange looks when I play it, but it's a really fun song. If you know it, sing along.” You begin playing the intro. As you begin the familiar rhythm, a few people cheer in recognition. “It's called 'Psycho Killer,' by Talking Heads.”

You feel a ball of nerves coil in your stomach when you remember who's in the audience. You've been so caught up in performing that you nearly forgot. And now, this choice feels silly and a bit embarrassing.

_Why do I feel like he’s judging me as a person solely based on the lyrical makeup of the songs I’m playing at a local pub’s Open Mic?_

 

* * *

 

_I can't seem to face up to the facts._  
_I'm tense and nervous, and I can't relax._  
_I can't sleep 'cause my bed's on fire._  
_Don't touch me, I'm a real live wire._

 

* * *

 

You put on your best devious/sexy/alluring/psychotic face and feel the tension in your stomach ease up when the crowd starts singing along to the chorus, drunken tongues slurring the vaguely French lyrics.

 

* * *

 

_Psycho Killer,_  
_Qu'est-ce que c'est._  
_Fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-far better,_  
_run, run, run, run, run, run, run away..._

_Oh, oh, oh._  
_Psycho Killer,_  
_Qu'est-ce que c'est._  
_Fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-far better,_  
_run, run, run, run, run, run, run away..._

_Oh, oh, oh, oh..._  
_aye-aye-aye-aye-aye-aye!_

 

* * *

 

As lively as the crowd is, they don't even attempt to sing along when you hit the high note (and you're very thankful for that), and when you do, they clap and whistle. Again, you make the mistake of looking over and catching Benedict's gaze, and it's like a punch to the gut. The good kind. He's hiding his grin behind the glass he holds to his lips, and his mates are making a lot of noise. Not that you're complaining. You attempt a smirk back at him.

 

* * *

 

_Ce que j'ai fais, ce soir la._  
_Ce qu'elle a dit, ce soir la._  
_Realisant mon espoir,_  
_Je me lance, vers la gloire, OK..._  
_aye-aye-aye-aye-aye-aye-aye-aye!_

_We are vain and we are blind._  
_I hate people when they're not polite._

 

* * *

 

He fucking _winks_ at you – _oh lord._

_I'm gonna die._

_But – christ – if I were to die, what a way to go that would be._

 

* * *

 

_Psycho Killer,_  
_Qu'est-ce que c'est._  
_Fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-far better,_  
_run, run, run, run, run, run, run away..._

_Oh, oh, oh._  
_Psycho Killer,_  
_Qu'est-ce que c'est._  
_Fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-far better,_  
_run, run, run, run, run, run, run away..._

_Oh, oh, oh, oh..._  
_aye-aye-aye-aye-aye-aye!_

 

* * *

 

As the song ends, you hold out the last note and strum a little harder. There's a group of five extremely inebriated (and particularly sweaty) men who have been singing along with the chorus, and when the song ends, they roar like overzealous fans at a sporting event.

You'll be performing the duet next. As you turn to get your water bottle from the floor next to you, you look to Jess and mouth the word, ' _video'_ at her, while miming a charades-style video camera. She nods and gives a thumbs up, rifling through her bag for her camera.

After putting your water bottle back on the ground, the tech starts setting up a second mic and stool next to you. The crowd echoes a wave of questioning looks. “So for my last song, I'll be doing a duet with a new friend of mine.” He looks nervous, much to your surprise. You up your charismatic stage presence as encouragement, not only for him, but for you as well. “Ben, why don't you join me up on stage?”

His friends are shocked, shoving and elbowing each other harshly and gasping, whispering things like, _“I can't even...”_ and _“did he really just fucking...”_ It's priceless.

There's clapping as he gets up on stage next to you. He exhales shakily as he takes his seat, but immediately, he puts on a face. Just like you have. You ask the tech if you're ready to go, and look to Benedict for assurance. He gives a nod as he takes his mic from the stand, and you start playing. You give him a look to cue him in, and he takes the lead.

 

* * *

 

_Blackbird singing in the dead of night -_  
_take these broken wings and learn to fly._  
_All your life,_  
_you were only waiting for this moment to arise._

* * *

 

You shouldn't be surprised that he can sing, really – what, with all of the stellar voice acting that he does. You don't realize how intently you're staring at him and he catches your gaze, smirking back in turn. You feel a blush creep up the back of your neck as your eyes flash back down to your fingers on the frets. The crowd makes noises of awe and approval. You sing next, by yourself, and for some reason, the prospect is unnerving, regardless of whether or not you realize that he's heard you sing three songs already. The first line you utter brings a warm, long smile to his face – much like the one you’ve seen him wear in many an interview or candid photo.

 

* * *

 

_Blackbird singing in the dead of night -_  
_take these sunken eyes and learn to see._  
_All your life,_  
_you were only waiting for this moment to be free._

 

* * *

 

He watches you the same way as you sing, and you realize that this must be an act to him. A performance. It makes for a better show if there's visible chemistry on the stage. It _is_ a performance, of course, but you're not acting. Your emotions are as raw as they come.

It comes to the part of the song where you have to sing harmony, and the second both of your voices resound together, it's amazing. There's whistling and applause. Your voices meld together into the most decadent sound, like a dark chocolate-covered strawberry – that's what it sounds like. He holds eye contact, and you feel yourself getting lost. _I must be dreaming._

 

* * *

 

_Blackbird fly, blackbird fly,_ _  
_ _into the light of the dark black night._

_Blackbird fly, blackbird fly,_ _  
_ _into the light of the dark black night._

 

* * *

 

_No – this can't be happening. Not to me. I'm not even that great._ You remember fumbling a few times in your previous songs, but you play this one seamlessly, much to your surprise and delight. It's one of the first you ever learned, but with how distracted you are, you’d expect at least a few screw-ups. If it were any other song, you definitely would have messed up the finger-picking by now. His stage presence is helping, of course, though you're the one contributing all of the harmony. Truthfully, all you want to do is impress the living shit out of this man. The warm feeling in your stomach tells you that you’re succeeding.

 

* * *

 

_Blackbird singing in the dead of night,_  
_take these broken wings and learn to fly._  
_All your life,_  
_you were only waiting for this moment to arise._  
_You were only waiting for this moment to arise._  
_You were only waiting for this moment to arise._

 

* * *

 

You feel your heart pounding and the adrenaline rushing through your system and you both share a relieved look when the crowd roars with applause. He chuckles and places the mic back in the stand, giving a quick bow before holding his arms out to gesture to you. He soon joins the crowd clapping. _Too many people looking at me. Far too many._ You grimace,giving an awkward half-bow and a fleeting wave to the audience as you get up to put your guitar in its case.

Before anyone can approach you, you duck into the bathroom to compose yourself, because you're sure you look like you're having a panic attack. You probably are having a panic attack. Hunching over the bathroom sink and looking at yourself in the mirror, you sigh. _Yup, I am definitely having a panic attack._

You have to stop to take a deep breath, closing your eyes and remembering the feeling you got from performing with him. _No, that’s not helping calm me down at all._ You can’t help but worry that you sounded worse than you remember or that your guitar was out of tune or that your song choices put him off. Or even worse: that he looked to you with pity, seeing you as nothing but another one of his desperate, hopeless fans whose sad life dreams he had so nobly just realized. Because, you know, he’s a good guy like that. _Oh god, no._

 

* * *

 

When you return to the bar, Benedict and his friends are gone. You're distracted, however, by Jess' devious Cheshire grin. You don't realize why she's grinning until you take your seat at the bar.

There's a fresh drink waiting for you upon your return. There's a napkin tucked under it, and written in fountain pen, it reads,

 

> _"That was phenomenal, and you were lovely._ _  
> _ _Thank you for helping me out. I am forever in your debt._ _  
> _ Have coffee with me?
> 
> _\- Benedict"_

There's a phone number scribbled on the back of the napkin.

 

* * *

 

You wait until the following afternoon to text him – wanting to play hard to get – knowing that you'll sound much more composed in this medium. Definitely not as awkward as regular conversation – whether that be in person or over the phone. You devote all of your attention to this text message, having deliberated what exactly you want to say since the moment you saw his phone number. You type in your well-thought-out message and hit send: “ _It was my pleasure. I'm free all of next week, if you still want to get coffee.”_

He replies less than five minutes later. “ _I'd love to. How does Tuesday afternoon sound?”_

You try to wait to text him back, so as to not sound too eager. You make it three minutes and eight seconds before caving in. _"Brilliant. Did you have a specific café in mind?"_

He replies with an address. _"Say, Tuesday at 13:00?"_

_"I look forward to it."_

_I'm gonna vomit._

 

* * *

 

Two days after your incredible Open Mic Night performance, you awaken to find hundreds of notifications on your phone from the time you'd been asleep.

_Oh my fucking god. She didn't._

Most of the notifications are from Facebook and Twitter. It seems that Jess posted the video that she took of you and Benedict on Open Mic Night. It's on YouTube, with hundreds of thousands of views already.

_She did._

There’s one notification that particularly catches your eye: a text message from Benedict's number. It reads: _"It seems that the media has caught wind of our impromptu performance. At least the video is good quality."_

You stumble out a reply, your regret evident in the tone of your text message. _"God, I'm so sorry. I had nothing to do with it, I swear. I knew that my friend was recording it, but I had no idea that she'd put it online. I'm so sorry for all of this."_

The reply comes quickly. At this point, you can feel your heartbeat in your throat. _"Oh no, believe me – it's all right with me. You made us sound fantastic together, so I'm not complaining. I'm just sorry about all of the publicity. It must be awful."_

You smile to yourself. _"Yes, it’s terrible. Wretched vultures, the public can be_ – _how on earth do you manage? No, but in all seriousness, it’s perfectly fine. I'll live. I guess it'd probably be best if I just avoid the internet for a while."_

_"Don't let the media get to you. I look forward to seeing you Tuesday. ;)"_ You could faint.

_OHMYGODHEDIDNOTSENDMEAFUCKINGSMILEYWINKYFACE_


	2. Coffee Date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so after a lot of deliberation, I decided to upload the next chapter (so much for the series of one-shots, eh?), mostly because I'd like to post as much of the old work that's gathering dust on my hard-drive. I, however, do not plan to post any more of this particular story (for the sake of BC, and also, whatever is left of my dignity). 
> 
> The Polyvore set for this chapter can be found [here.](http://www.polyvore.com/cgi/set?id=106634686)

When you answer your mother’s phone call later that day, you _almost_ expect the level of hysteria in her tone. You’re watching TV with Jess when your phone rings.

“Hey mom.” You pull the phone away from your ear, the sheer volume of her excitement beyond deafening. “Yeah, it’s — yeah, I — christ, mom, can I get a sentence or two in here?” Jess giggles from the other side of the couch. “Hang on, Jess is right here. I’m putting you on speaker.”

As soon as you press the button, your mom’s voice reverberates from the earpiece. “ _WHY IN GOD’S NAME DID I HAVE TO FIND OUT FROM FACEBOOK THAT MY OWN DAUGHTER PERFORMED ON STAGE WITH BENEDICT FUCKING CUMBERBATCH AND NEGLECTED TO FUCKING CALL ME?!”_ Her shrill tone reminds you of the howler that Ron Weasley got from his mother at Hogwarts. _“You didn’t think, ‘wow, this is a life altering experience, I should probably call my mom?’”_

Jess is now laughing openly. “She’s right, you know.” _Cheers, Jess – thanks for the backup._

“Yeah, I… I don’t really have an adequate excuse at all. I had planned to call you on Tuesday, before our date, when I will inevitably have an earth-shattering crisis and am compelled to call my mommy for emotional support.”

There is a pause at the other end of the line. _“You’re… you’re going on a DATE?!”_ Of course, her secondhand excitement is overwhelming, but it’s exactly the kind of boost that you need to help you prepare for Tuesday.

  

* * *

 

Getting ready on the day of your coffee date is eerily similar to how it was getting ready for the open mic night. But this time, the fear – the threat, the reason for getting dressed up in the first place – is completely warranted. Today, you _know_ that someone will be watching you ( _not just someone,_ your mind supplies), judging you. It doesn't matter to you if it's the good kind of judgment; being under scrutiny in any instance is gut-wrenching, but now, the person doing the judging is one whom you hold to such high esteem. You adore him, however creepy that may sound, and you feel like you know him already, to some extent. You imagine how it would feel making small talk with him – like you’re lying, pretending you don’t already know his entire public image front to back. You’ve seen and read most of his interviews; you know more than you care to admit about this man, and you can't help feeling the slightest bit pathetic.

And you wouldn't be surprised if this was all some sort of sick Cumberbitch fantasy. You wouldn't be surprised if you woke up back home in your own bed, forced to admit that this was all just a dream. Or maybe you’re in a coma and— _no_. _Stop this._ You have to keep reminding yourself that this is real, that this is happening, and that that night at the pub happened too. Jess sent you the video she took of your duet and you synced it onto your phone, and you go back to watch it whenever you feel like sticking your head in the clouds or tangling your hand in your sheets – which, evidently, has happened rather frequently since the encounter, you’re ashamed to admit.

You take great pleasure (a different kind of pleasure, of course) in reading the comments that people have made online about how lucky you were, how people would sell their soul for a memory like this, how they’d kill to be in your shoes, how this is like a fangirl’s dream come true – and you can’t argue. _I’ve definitely read this in a fanfiction somewhere._

Jess (your trusty shopper) took you out yesterday to help you find a new outfit for your coffee date. She insisted that you treat yourself to nice things for once, because this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Oxford Street proved to be quite a feat: you spent hours gallivanting about the shops and cafés. It was your first time there, surprisingly – you were hardly prepared for the crowds and the massive shops. Still, you made it out alive (your bank account having taken a heavy blow), with a new outfit, some makeup, and a few accessories. Of course, she insisted on steering you into the lingerie store, because “even if you don't get to show it off, a matching lingerie set does wonders for a girl's confidence.”

“I'm pretty sure I'd die without you.”

“I know.”

This morning, you set aside quite a bit of extra time to get ready, so that you can be a little more meticulous with your routine. In the shower, you make sure to shave, and Jess' voice in your head reminds you to exfoliate (“it's a crucial part of the process, and more importantly, it'll make your skin as soft as a baby's arse”).

You get to work on your makeup, using the new light brown-toned eyeshadow and a felt-tip eyeliner pen that you bought at the shops yesterday. Then, you apply a dark matte lipstick. After adding the finishing touches to your makeup, you slip into your new matching light peachy-colored bra and panties set and look in the mirror. _Damn,_ was Jess right. You do feel better. You get dressed in your new outfit: maroon skinny pans, an oversized cable-knit heather gray pullover sweater, and brown leather boots. You smirk when you see that your lips are almost the same color as your pants. You top off the outfit with an autumn-toned plaid scarf and a pair of brown stud earrings.

It's about noon now, and you have a pretty lengthy walk ahead of you, so you put on your sunglasses and grab your brown leather satchel, ready to leave. Jess barrels up to you before you can even turn the door handle, squeezing you furiously and kissing your forehead. “Look at you.” She looks like a proud mother. She takes your hands in her own and grumbles, “If you ruin these, I swear to god...” She's referring to the pale pink manicure that she spent a lot of time on yesterday. You give her a quick, nonchalant salute and head out of the door, your mask of confidence belying the tug-of-war between dread and euphoria that’s raging in your gut.

 

* * *

 

The cozy little café sits tucked away on a side street. The weather in London is chilly today, but not uncomfortably cold. As you approach the café, your gaze travels over the rustic, elegant décor until it lands on the man sitting at one of the tables outside, with two cups of coffee sitting in front of him.

At the sound of your boots hitting the pavement, Benedict looks up to meet your eyes, and a smile forms on his features. _Right. Shoulders back, no slouching, stand tall. Act confident. No,_ be _confident._ As you approach the table, he stands and walks around it to pull out the chair for you. You stop for a moment, taken aback at the gesture, before taking the seat he so graciously holds out for you. The hesitance in your step makes him chuckle, and you thank him before he nods and returns to his own seat. You clear your throat to speak first. “My apologies for being late, I -”

“Oh, you're not late at all – I was just a little overzealous and showed up quite a bit early.” Overzealous?  About meeting little old me?

You two had the same idea when it came time to get ready this morning – casual and comfortable. He's wearing a thick cream-colored cable-knit cardigan (with brown suede elbow patches) over a plain white v-neck, skinny-fit jeans, brown leather oxfords, and aviators. There's a scarf hanging over the back of his chair.

_Does he have to be so spectacularly devastating?_

He gestures to the cup of coffee in front of you, and you thank him as you stir in a bit of sugar. He watches you attentively, thumbing the lid of his coffee cup absently. As you take your first sip of the coffee, he says, “I didn't get to thank you after our song for helping me out.” _Wait, back up – did he just call it_ our _song?_

“Yeah, I kind of ran away, you know, out of panic.” You both laugh awkwardly. You're trying so very hard to act casual, but _for god's sake,_ this is _Benedict Fucking Cumberbatch._

“Oh, well you hardly looked it when you were up on stage!”

“Oh, acting – well, you would know.” He shrugs. “Yeah, performing in front of large crowds, I can usually handle pretty easily. Social interaction, however... well, that's another story.” You both laugh again, harder this time. Upon further inspection, you note that he looks equally as uncomfortable as you feel.

“Well, I think you're doing just fine this time 'round,” he mutters. _There it goes again. The murderous, wretched butterflies._ You look at him, smiling sweetly, but have nothing to say in return. There's a long pause before you reply.

“I'm really sorry I just bolted without saying anything. I should've at least _thanked you_ or shook your hand or something.”

“God – why? _You_ were doing _me_ a favour.” _But we both know that's not quite true._ The reference rings out in your mind. You just shrug in return. He leans forward in his seat, bracing his forearms on the edge of the table. In a low voice, he asks, “What would you have said?”

_I love you. I've seen all of your interviews. I squeal whenever I see your beautiful face on my television. My mom firmly believes we'll be married some day. I've read fanfiction about you. Christ – I've written fanfiction about you. You've spoiled me. No man I meet will ever compare to you._

You chew on your lip as you formulate a socially acceptable response. “I would've said something like, 'it was an honor not only to perform with you, Mr. Cumberbatch, but to have the chance to meet you and talk to you as well.'” _Well, that was pathetic. A for effort._ He looks at you as if he's _awh_ ing internally. “And I probably would've slipped you my phone number too, honestly,” you add, surprised at your own audacity. _Am I... God, am I flirting?_

_…with Benedict Cumberbatch?_

He chuckles and quips, “I guess I beat you to it.” You sip your coffee to cover the look of sheer terror on your face. “But in all sincerity, I'm floored. You really are far too kind.”

“In all sincerity, I mean it.” You don't think before it slips out of your mouth. It makes you sound so dreadfully eager; you wish you could take it back.

Thankfully, he disregards it. “I'd really ought to thank you.” You shake your head and laugh into your coffee cup. _Seriously? Him thanking me?_ “No, really. You did me a great service. Without you, I would've lost the bet, or worse – I would've had to do it with someone else.” He mock-shudders. “Either way, I'm rubbish at the guitar.”

“But you do have a wonderful singing voice.”

He waves off the compliment. “Oh, well you can talk. You were brilliant up there!”

“In truth, I just make it all look really difficult and intricate so it seems impressive. Both my voice and my skill with instruments are unremarkable, but when I do both simultaneously, it’s like, ‘ _Hey! Look at both of these things I’m doing… at the same time! Disregard my mediocrity and be impressed that I can multitask!_ ’” You both laugh very genuinely for a minute or two, tears threatening to stream down your faces by the time that your laughter dies down and you’re able to breathe once more.

“Well, I disagree. You can't feign having such a lovely voice.” _Nope. This isn’t happening_. Your brain has given up trying to find excuses for nice things that he says; instead, it’s devolved to just denying the fact that this is even real. “And I saw the sheet music in your binder. There was some pretty complex material in there – you can't fool me.” He smirks at you, and you melt into your seat a little bit.

“I fooled you into thinking that I _wasn't_ dreadfully nervous. That's something,” you remark, sitting back in your chair.

“Touché. But I thought you said you were perfectly fine with performing in front of crowds?”

“Oh, that's not what was making me nervous. Performing in front of _you_ made me nervous.” Again, thoughts just slip out before you can even process them. _Stupid, stupid!_

“Why on Earth would _I_ make you nervous?” _He's playing dumb. He must be._

You smirk. “You haven't the slightest idea of how hard I'm trying _not_ to fangirl right now.” _Maybe making a mockery of it will lighten the mood._ His expression shifts to something of a grimace. “Shit, I'm sorry, I hate to be weird -”

“No, no – it's not that -” He reaches across the table to rest his hand atop yours. _Ohmygodohmygodhe'sfuckingtouchingmehe'sfuckingtouchingmeIthinkI'mgoingtoimplode._ “I just remembered what you said to me at the pub, when you first approached me. You _had_ mentioned that you came to see me do an interview, and I didn't properly greet you backstage afterward. Is that correct?”

You swallow. “Uh, yeah, but -”

He squeezes your hand and looks into your eyes. “I hope that I've been able to make it up to you for that. Though I do believe that I still owe you a selfie.”

You exhale shakily. “Believe me, you have far surpassed any and all expectations. Granted, that's not really saying much – because as I said before, I was happy just getting a smile and a wave from you.”

“Still, I feel that I owe it to you to make up for that, and for helping me out at the pub.” _I must be dreaming._ “No, you're certainly not,” he laughs.

“I didn't realize I'd said that out loud.” You gulp. The butterflies feel more like gigantic fucking vultures with big, flapping wings, performing some sort of rhythmic interpretive dance in your abdomen.

He drops and shakes his head, laughing heartily. When he picks his head back up, he bites his lip and mutters, “There are two types of fans.”

_No. Nonononono. Not a fucking chance._

_There is no fucking way he's making a Sherlock reference._

You bite your lip and close your eyes, reciting the dialogue you remember all-too-well. “Oh?”

His inflection has shifted to the one he uses in his portrayal of Sherlock. “'Catch me before I kill again,' Type A.”

_No. He can't do this._

“Uh-huh. What's Type B?”

He bores into you. “Your bedroom's just a taxi ride away.”

You smirk and lean forward, faking confidence as you shudder internally. In an almost-whisper, you say, “Guess which one I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you enjoyed reading, and as always, comments, kudos, criticisms, and the like are always, **always** appreciated.

**Author's Note:**

> I may post a second chapter if enough people care to read it; I have a **lot** more of this story written, but I'm not sure how much of it I want to post just yet. Let me know what you think.


End file.
